Cellos and Literature
by Candied Literature
Summary: America becomes stressed and exhausted due to his Industrial Revolution. Russia decides to help.


**So while cleaning out the files on my laptop, I came across this secret santa fic I wrote last year. I decided to upload it here because why not? I'm still not that happy with this fic, but I don't want to mess with it any longer. Oh well...**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

It was hot, stifling and just plain boring in the overly decorated room. It was almost the turn of a new century- the 1900's- and the nations had gathered to tell of their current situations and future plans. Tired from taking notes, Russia's eyes raised to meet those of the host nation of the current meeting-America- to whom he gave a small smile. He had not paid much attention to the boy since the beginning of the day, as he was preoccupied with business, but even from a glance Russia noticed _it._ Everyone did. Something was bothering the North American nation so much that he could barely focus properly on his presentation. From the right of him, he could hear hushed whispers about America, about his appearance, about his demeanor. Russia was not a man to listen or participate in gossip, but he couldn't help but be intrigued by what was being said.

"The lad seems to have a short temper today."

"Oui, I have noticed."

"What is with the change of his appearance? Is he trying to make a statement, aru?"

Russia raised an eyebrow. Although America's clothes were mostly in order, his hair was indeed disheveled from constantly running his fingers through it. Bustling, talking, always moving. America couldn't seem to stand still. Not entirely unusual for the boy, but somehow, this was different. It wasn't from excitement, that's for sure. While presenting his piece on the new farming equipment his people had recently created, America flipped through some papers for a certain report. He paused. Russia noticed sweat beads forming on America's forehead as a look of panic formed upon his face. He watched the nation frantically looked through his briefcase for the missing report, almost looking on the edge of hysterics over something simple. Fortunately, the document was found, after three whole minutes of muttered cursing and panicked statements- it resting right on his left, next to a glass of water. After he was finished speaking, America nervously sat down and proceeded to bounce his leg. Russia focused on America, noting the differences he had. His usual golden blonde hair was now a deep, dark black; his glasses were slightly cracked in the corners and askew; but most of all, it seemed that America was restless, jumpy even, in a way that showed from lack of sleep. Rolling his pen between his right index finger and thumb, Russia furrowed his brow, concerned about young nation.

Lost in thought, the Russian did not notice that the meeting had finished until America slammed his briefcase on the table, shoving papers and documents into it. Russia looked around- all the other nations had already left. Apparently America also seemed to be distracted and did not notice the other man's presence since he made no acknowledgement of him. Seeing that this was his chance, Russia stood up and made his way towards the grumbling nation.

"Good day, America."

"What do you want?!," he snapped, banging his fists against the table. America turned around, cold silver eyes glaring into Russia's. His face then changed to one of pure shock, "R-Russia! I am terribly sorry for lashing out at you. I-I didn't know there was anyone else here. "

"It is alright, no damage has been done, da?," Russia replied. America looked to his left at the papers sprawled all over the table, his body tensing up.

"I see that there is something is bothering you."

America ran his fingers through his hair, giving a shaky laugh, "Is it really that noticeable?".

Russia took some time to think before he responded, "I am pretty sure it is very noticeable if every single person in the room seemed to talk about it." America took in a sharp breath. "Great. That's just great." He placed both hands on the table, hanging his head. "Look, I'm just..._very_ stressed at the current moment," he gritted out. "So much is happening all at once and there is so much to get done and I-"

"So why don't you take a break?"

America looked at Russia incredulously. "What?"

"You heard me, my dear America. Why don't you take a break. Come to my room with me and I can make you tea there.", he smiled. America turned to the mountain of a man, "Russia, we can have lunch, but your hotel room is not the most professional of places to discuss politics. Plus, _I_ am your host, it would be rude of me to have _you_ provide food for me." Russia gently placed a hand on the younger nation's shoulder, turning him towards the exit. "No, I insist that you come with me. I did not say that we were going to talk politics. Is it not wrong that we cannot enjoy lunch as friends?"

America sighed, fixing his glasses. "...Alright. You win Russia, I guess a small break would be in order." He grabbed his briefcase, stuffed in the remaining papers, and looked to Russia. "Lead the way, big guy."

After hailing a stage coach, the duo reached Russia's hotel. America promptly followed the fellow nation into his room, but couldn't help but to continue to feel tense and agitated. While taking off his hat and coat, America entered the small living room. Russia brought him to one of the small couches. "Come, come America. You are tired, da? Sit. I will make you tea." Nodding, America complied.

Russia calmly strided to the small stove in the next room and began fixing the tea. "So, I noticed that your hair and eyes are different colors. It is nice." he called out.

America blinked, "Y-yes, they have." He looked at a few strands of hair from his bangs, "You know that I am having an Industrial Revolution here, right? Well, all the steel production and factories made my eyes the way they are, and the oil drilling had the same effect on my hair. I have not been paying much attention to my appearance to be honest." Russia hummed in acknowledgement. After a few minutes of awkward silence and clanking of cups and plates, Russia returned with tea and some biscuits on a steel tray. Laying the tray on the coffee table between them, he sat in the chair across from America. He watched the nation take a cup and slowly drink from it, still showing some signs of distress. "Do you still feel ill?"

America lowered his cup, frowning. "Unfortunately, I still do. I apologize." Russia stood up once more. "There is no need to apologize America," he reassured, "I believe that I have something here that might help." Out from a closet, he pulled out a large, black case and carefully brought it back to the living room. Dragging a nearby stool to the center of the room, Russia revealed what was inside the case: a beautiful cello. America's eyes widened in awe at its graceful form and then flickered to Russia. "Oh no, Russia. You don't have to play music for me. You have already done enough."

Russia chucked at the boy's response. "Ah, but I insist! Again!"

America began to stand up, "I can't have you do this just for me!"

"Sit, sit!"

America once again complied. After seeing the nation had sat back down, Russia settled the cello onto the ground, gave a wink to his guest, and with his right hand, slowly bowed the strings. Loud but heavenly sounds radiated from the cello, giving America delightful goosebumps. The American relaxed in his seat, mystified by the melodious music. His attention was then turned to Russia, fascinated at the intense emotions the man displayed while playing the instrument. America closed his eyes, and allowed the music to fill his ears, his mind, his heart; this was a gift for him, and he was going to enjoy it. It smoothed his tensions to a great degree, and for the first time in a long time, America could feel calm. When the song ended, America found himself discovering a few tears on his cheek, acting quick to dry them away.

"Did you like it?," Russia inquired.

America seemed at lost of words. "Like it? Ivan, it was beautiful! I don't what else to say.."

Seeing that America had called him by his human name, Russia followed his example. "I am glad you enjoyed it, Alfred."

Silver eyes glanced at the cello, "I didn't know that you played. But, yes, I did enjoy that. Thank you."

Russia put the instrument back in its case, returning back to his seat near America. "I want to help you Alfred. I do not like seeing you in such an agitated state. Do you want to talk about the stressful things that are affecting you? It will relieve some of the tension, da?" He leaned in, offering his guest a biscuit.

Muttering a thank you, America took the food and placed it on a petite plate. Taking a few moments to find the proper words, America looked directly at Russia. "All this," he gestured to himself, "my change in appearance, my stress, is due to the Industrial Revolution in my country. Yes, I know this is beneficial for my economy and for my future, but it is a lot to take in. And it does not help when I have to continue work with sudden bursts of energy or periods of fatigue at any point in time. I assume that the fatigue is from my people who work in the factories- they work for so long, with very little breaks and I can feel that. My body is being put under so much stress. I mean, I'm still recovering from the hell that was my civil war! There is so much to be done-so many political assignments that have to get completed- that I have to go on for days without getting a wink of sleep. Sometimes...sometimes I feel that I'm loosing sanity, you understand that feeling right?"

The Russian simply nodded, giving look of empathy. America lay back on the couch, looking up to the ceiling. "I wish I could just not think about all this right now," America whispered.

There was a small period of silence until Russia spoke, "So don't. Think of something else Alfred, it is that simple."

"I don't know how to do that, Ivan."

Ignoring the last statement, Russia continued, "I have been meaning to ask, when I came to your country for the meeting, I overheard a few gentlemen talk about a certain Mark Twain. I was intrigued by their conversation, but unfortunately I do not know much about the man. Would you care to tell me about him?"

America's head perked up after hearing the familiar name. "Mark Twain, he's author of mine," he explained, "A very popular one around here, if I must add. He has written many novels such _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer- _and just recently he published _Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_. That last book hit me pretty hard when I read it; it is surely one of a kind. I found it a bit difficult to read at first because of it's format, with its raw language and all. Many people here either like it or hate it- ol' satirical Twain really did write a controversial piece. I get the feeling that he's making a few jabs here and there about humanity in that book as well."

"Interesting. Very interesting," Russia commented, "I now plan to read a novel from the man."

"I'll send you a copy, if you want," America offered.

"I would like that, thank you."

"It isn't a problem. You know, if you are interested in poetry, I do know one poet that just came to mind- I think you might like her," America exclaimed. "Emily Dickinson. A very intelligent woman and a very unique writer. She has an interesting way with words and her opinion of life and love. Sadly, life has not been the happiest for her recently."

Russia took in the information, encoding all that the American said. "I see. I will keep her in mind. Are there any other authors that you could recommend?," asked the Russian nation.

The American thought for a brief moment, recalling recent works that he had read. "Ah yes, we cannot forget Ralph Waldo Emerson," he said.

The name clicked within Russia's mind. "I have heard of the man," he remarked, "Isn't he the one who wrote the essay, what was the name... ah!- the essay, "Self-Reliance?"

"That's the guy! You know of him?" America asked. After receiving a positive response, he continued, "Yes, Emerson is quite the influential man. He lead the Transcendentalist movement in the '30s- you know it right? Basically, what he believed was that by free will power, man could surpass their chains from the physical world to the spiritual one; that God could be found in nature and in life." America stuffed his face with a biscuit, "He continued to lecture around the state, spreading his beliefs and ideals to thousands." He wiped his face and babbled on, "Now, uh well, he passed away a few years ago- in 1882. But Walt Whitman is another transcendentalist whose works are popular as well. "

The two continued discussing about authors from their countries, about various philosophical views and their favourite pieces of literature. They talked and talked, unknowing that a simple lunch had spanned over two hours.

Russia had always known that Americans were intriguing, but it was a different experience learning about them from their very country. "Your people are so fascinating. _You_ are fascinating," he smiled.

America gushed, "Gosh Ivan, I'm blushing. Thanks." His eyes flickered to the small clock on the mantel, "OH SHOOT! I can't believe that it's this late already! To think I spent a three hour lunch with you Russia. I have to get back to my office soon. But-" He ran his fingers through his hair, in which Russia classified this as a habit America did when nervous. "But seriously, I want to thank you Ivan."

"For what?" the man inquired.

America stood up and straightened his suit, then watched Russia get up as well. "Taking care of me is one way of saying it," America replied. "I feel ten times better right now than I did this morning. Honestly, I haven't felt this calm since the Civil War ended. I knew I was stressed, heck- even my brother did too- but nothing was done to fix that until now. I don't feel like tearing my hair out anymore!" he laughed. "So, thank you Russia. I really appreciate what you did for me."

The warm smile America gave Russia was something heavenly- it thawed the coldness of his heart, giving him a blissful sensation. He felt contempt with his doing- America calmed down _and _he had spent some quality time with the younger nation. Without thinking, he strided around the coffee table to America. He brushed some hair out of his face, and planted a small kiss on the smaller man's forehead.

"You are welcome, Alfred."


End file.
